


is this the first of the season?

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crushes, F/M, Fingerfucking, Holding Hands, Protective Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you always go around saving damsels in distress?" Clara jokes, leaning back into her pillows.</p><p>"I do seem to have made a career of it, yes," he responds with a pensive look.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is this the first of the season?

This planet is a gorgeous place, really. She can see why he chose it: it's essentially an aquarium. It's got a domed, glassy sky that becomes a watery memory as they descend beneath the waves. Bubbles and jellyfish and seahorses float up around them. They drift past crystalised coral reefs, waving fingers of seaweed. Then there's a metallic clunk and the Doctor mutters something in Gallifreyan that Clara knows is more than a mild oath.

Turns out the TARDIS has flooded.

He opens a back door and pulls out a pair of yellow wellies, pulling them on before disappearing off in search of the trouble. He reemerges occasionally with pliers, bits of string, a water-logged instruction manual, and tiny plastic scissors that are really too small to be effectual.

"You look cute today," she blurts.

He stares down at her, processing, like he's not sure why she said that. She's not entirely sure herself.

Perhaps it's that he looks different than he usually does, the yellow wellies bright against his dark clothes. The cheerful _squelch_ , squelch noise they make as he absorbs himself in this project. Figuring out which pipe goes where so the TARDIS can drain and they can head off to the next adventure.

He looks at home. That's it. It's a place she wants to be, too. Anywhere with him.

Meanwhile, she's realised that he's glaring at her. Clara awkwardly busies herself with helping him. Looks like this is just a one-sided thing, then.

***

Until one day he saves her life.

They're going to an art gallery opening in some anonymous metropolis. Very exclusive. Clara spends hours beforehand getting ready. She stares at herself in the mirror, half wondering if she's dressed appropriately and half agonizing over which details to play up, which details she wants him to notice. Mostly just hating herself for caring.

The Doctor explains that he's had the invitation for a few hundred years. "I kept forgetting to RSVP," he says, holding the door open for her. He's wearing a tuxedo underneath his coat and she smiles at him. "You clean up nicely."

"I hope these odd compliments of yours aren't going to become a habit," he says as he hands their things over to the coatcheck. "But thank you."

She waits, expectant. This would be the moment when he should return the favour and say something about her dress. Then again, he's never been one for social cues.

The gallery itself is pretty swanky. White room, low-hanging chandeliers. Caterers like something out of a Fritz Lang film: female robots cast in golden bronze, walking stiffly about and carrying trays of mini quiches over their expressionless heads. The Doctor drifts away to say hello to the artist: a thin, nervous-looking man with bright blue skin.

He finally returns to her and they pause in front of a neon version of a pre-Raphaelite work. The Doctor bends to look at the little card hanging next to it and reads it off for her. "It's beautiful," Clara says.

"Yes, beautiful," the Doctor says softly. Reverent.

He isn't looking at the painting, is the thing. He's looking at her like she's some kind of tasty morsel. Next to her in the precious half-dark, so close. He could pick her up as though she's one of the finger foods from the caterers walking past and _eat_ -

Clara can't quite remember a time when he looked at her like that. Maybe once, long ago, when they were on that train together. Pressed up against each other in the hallway, talking about last hoorahs.

It makes whatever's going on with her heart bloom and flutter.

"Are you all right?" he asks. "You really must come and look at this - "

She shakes her head to clear it. He's a few paintings away by now, beckoning for her to join him.

After the gallery, they head down the cobblestone streets in search of sustenance. Those bright yellow arches will suffice. "I'm surprised that there's one here," Clara says once they've slid into a corner booth, fries and milkshakes and greasy goodness spread out between them. The Doctor laughs. "Clara, there's one on every planet."

He's taken his coat and jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. Clara is somehow entranced by it: the exposed underside of his wrists, the deft movement of his hands as he gestures, pops a fry into his mouth. "Way too salty," he says. "They always are," she agrees. Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, like she's speaking to him in a dream.

They walk out together, back towards the TARDIS. Clara catches his hand, holding his fingers loosely. Just to be sure of him. He stops and turns, then. It's a heartbeat of a moment in which he pulls her towards him, as if he knows the movie that's playing in her head. Instead of leaning in and acting out the next bit, though, he tells her not to move.

A shape is advancing out of the shadowy noirish corner of the city they're in. It appears to be an off-model version of one of the robots from earlier. Or perhaps the same kind, just one that's started glitching. Laser eyes. There's a sudden, sharp pain in her leg and she crumples against the Doctor. He shouts her name. Everything goes woozy after that, the camera angle distorted - the Doctor, knocking down the robot, an explosion - running footsteps -

She doesn't remember much else.

***

The next thing she knows, she's been set up in a room inside the TARDIS. Her leg isn't hurting anymore, she's just tired. There are pillows propping her up, and a cosy blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Tea cooling in a mug on the nightstand next to her. She's been changed into pajamas that are pink and silky soft. There's no clear light source anywhere - it seems to come from the walls themselves.

She finally notices the Doctor hovering in the doorway. He's not wearing his tuxedo anymore. Instead, he's got on a navy hoodie and those checkered trousers he likes so much. Black socks. Without shoes on, he actually seems shorter.

"Do you always go around saving damsels in distress?" Clara jokes, leaning back into her pillows.

"I do seem to have made a career of it, yes," he responds with a pensive look.

He lies down on the bed next to her and she snuggles up next to him. It's not even about wanting him - not entirely. Of course she still does. It's just about the sense of safety that she has with him. A feeling that _oh, someone's here_.

Brow furrowed. "I put you in harm's way." Quieter, then. Talking to himself. "I've got a duty of care. That means that I don't leave anywhere without you."

"It's part of the adventure," Clara says, touching his arm. "I know what this involves." She's got to stop his self-indulgent angst. "And hey, whatever you gave me from the medibay worked wonders. I'll be right as rain within a day or so."

She lifts the covers and takes off her pajama bottoms to show him. "See? Not even a mark."

The Doctor puts his hand there, where the lasers got her. "Does that hurt?"

"No."

He presses a little. Kneading. "How about now?"

"No," Clara repeats, although her breath catches.

Then he climbs his hand higher. There's electricity in his touch that drips all the way down her spine. He rests his hand on the shivery skin of her hip in a considering way before tugging down the inconsequential fabric between them. Clara swallows. "What are you doing?" she asks him, voice faltering as he pushes his fingers inside her. He's giving her that look again, like he could just eat her up. Her crush on him becomes this visceral, blossoming heat - her heart, she wants him so much that it's going to break. She feels so tiny curled up against him like this. His fingers, so much bigger than her own.

His voice is a comforting burr; she can feel it in his chest. Yet it comes out choked as well. As though he, too, is surprised at the tenderness of his words. "Taking care of you."

It's like he's saving her all over again. Opening her up on his hand, naked and vulnerable. Clara grabs helplessly at his wrist but he keeps going. His fingers are calloused from playing guitar. He plays her the same way - strumming chords over her clit, pressing just enough that she starts to moan, muffled against his hoodie. Her nipples are hard and over-sensitive underneath her pajama shirt. Clara squirms and can feel her underwear move down her legs to collect at her ankles. She wriggles and they slide off, forgotten at the other side of the bed with her pajama bottoms.

As if of its own accord, her hand leaps from his wrist to his arm before finally falling next to her on the bed, curling open/close, open/close as he pauses. Lets all that sweet, sweet tension build to a coil in her stomach before he drags another one out of her. He hitches her up onto his thigh, getting her all smeary on the fabric of his trousers. And the entire while he doesn't say anything at all, just watches her take it. Her hands on the bed, on either side of his shoulders - she's practically riding his hand, snug up inside her, his thumb swiping over her until she whines. Her whole world blown open, like something inside her has jumped without waiting for the fall.

***

Clara recovers and they resume their journey across innumerable galaxies. So they'll just have to let it be. Go back to sailing back and forth through time, as though nothing ever happened. After all, they've lied to each other. For each other. It only makes sense that they should lie about this, too. She starts to wonder if that was a one-off. Just special (slightly tragic) circumstances. Underneath that, though, is lingering desire. Clara just wants to take care of him, too.

Time passes and her heart continues to get tangled up. She throws herself into the journey. It makes for a nice distraction.

In another, different city where squat buildings go on for miles. The doors of the tube hiss shut a few blocks away. He's scrambled up to the top of a low wall and invites her up with him. Clara is about to say she won't, although her concept of "won't" went out the window when she started travelling with him. The Doctor holds out his hand, asking her to trust him. "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise." Ever again, is what he doesn't say. Then he pulls her up next to him so they can survey this little domain of theirs. The moon rises overhead and they just sit there together, not talking much.

Clara would ask him about this if she wasn't so afraid of ruining it - this shimmering delicate thing between them. But when he walks her back to her flat, they're arm in arm without either of them commenting on it. Pieces falling into place.

Neither of them want to say goodbye just yet, so they don't. They sit on her couch, drinking wine and watching crappy TV. When he reaches over and undoes the fly of her jeans, it's like she foresaw this. He reaches in capably, brushing past her hair before stroking lower and pushing in. Clara writhes there, trembling on his hand, almost grateful for how quiet and secret her orgasm is when it finally arrives.

***

They're walking through a forest, the trees so tall she can't even see the canopy. It's a blurry green thing off somewhere in the distance. Eventually they end up on a suspension bridge, standing next to each other as they watch the mist roll in underneath them. The Doctor catches Clara's hand, holding her fingers loosely. Just to be sure of her.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you, " he begins.

"You don't have to," Clara responds. "I already know."


End file.
